Confessions of a Broken Heart
by renrie
Summary: The only thing Team is missing from her perfect life is a father. Her mom has given Team 3 months in London to discover the truth about her past. Team is determined to do so without falling into the same groupie trap that her mother once fell into.
1. Chapter 1

"Team?" I stop mid-throw, my arm outstretched with a shirt in my hand. I poke my head out of the closet that I'm currently standing in and search for a culprit, reaching up and tugging a piece of dust from my long bleached blonde locks. I see nothing, so I retreat into my closet and continue to throw piece after piece of clothing onto the ever-growing pile on top of the open suitcase I've left out for my self.

"Team?" The voice comes again and this time I press my ear against the far side of the closet, listening through the paper thin walls to the familiar tapping of heels against the hallway tiles. I peek my head out of the closet again; just in time to see a woman standing in the doorway. Her hands crossed over her chest and a glare being cast in the direction of my version of "packing". "What're you doing?" She walks further into the room and throws herself on my bed. "I see you're no more a packer than I am." I eye her up and down, taking in the blue blouse, the khaki skirt and the Manolo Blahnik heels.

"Em," I scold her as I step out of the closet and hover over her on the bed. "What have I told you about borrowing my shoes?" She ignores my question and simply slides them off my feet and tosses them on the pile of clothes. I give her a curt nod as a thank-you and throw myself on the bed next to her just as she sits up and begins rubbing her temples fiercely.

I prop myself up on one elbow and glare at her. "Headache?" She nods her head so hard I'm afraid her brains might fly out and end up all over my clothing. "Where are your glasses?" I'm still glaring at her. She shrugs. I stand up and grab her wrist, pulling her out of my room and down the hallway. I walk over to her writing desk, spotting the glasses and 'a-ha'ing as I do so. I pick them up and inspect them, making sure that she didn't do any damage because, knowing Mafalda Laramie as well as I do (and, seeing as she's my mother, I know her pretty well) in the past thirty minutes of writing she'd thrown her glasses against the wall at least ten times. It was something she'd always done when she had a writers block. At least she'd done it for as long as I could remember.

I always called my mom Em. Once again, one of the many things I just remember always occurring in our family. It probably had something to do with the fact that mom just wasn't fitting for her teenaged ways and sense of style. It probably also had to do with the fact that Mafalda was a much too hard (and yes, much too ugly) name for any three year old to mutter. So Em it was, for the beginning letter of the word mom and the name Mafalda.

Upon inspecting the glasses close enough and deeming them accept to wear, I walk up to Em and place them on the bridge of her nose before stepping back and loosely holding my two pointer fingers and thumbs in a loose rectangle. I "snap a mental photo" as Em makes a silly pose with her arms thrown above her head. We both collapse into a fit of laughter at our stupid little routine and I fall perfectly into the crook of Em's arm where I've always seemed to fit.

"I'm going to miss you, you know?" She wouldn't look at me; I knew it was because she had tears in her eyes. I nod my head and gaze out the window of our four story walk up much the same as she was. Now we both had tears in our eyes. I wipe my hand across my face briskly and pull away from her death hold.

"Alright, I've just got to pack and then we can go." I say it firmly, making sure that I, too, am ready for the trip of a lifetime. I turn on one heel and leave Em to finish her writing – but not before I take a long pause in the 'hallway of memories' as Em and I have always called it. The hallway is a lost cause to everyone that enters the house except for Em's old friends and me. In the hallway there are tons and tons of pictures – some in frames, some just loose and pinned to the wall or even taped – of all the memories that Em had had before me. I have a top four favorite, all four of which are the only four framed; each in its own thick black frame. The first of my favorites being a picture of Em, her hair teased high and bleached blonde just like mine is right now. Across her face is a look that spells out 'this is the best night of our lives' and around her shoulders the one and only Bruce Springsteen's arm is slung. Every time I see it my breath catches in my throat and I find myself imagining what it must've been like. Across the bottom of the picture the words 'To my babe: the Boss' are scrawled in some type of chicken scratch.

The next picture is one that I don't really know much about; aside from the fact that it always makes Em bust out into song and dance when she looks at it. I gaze at the picture quickly, ready to move on to my next two favorites just as Em steps up behind me and begins shouting in my ear. "IIIIII I just died in your arms toniggggght." I flinch just slightly and debate on whether or not to plug my ears with my fingers or not, but before I can even make up my mind her little song and dance is over. "Van Eede." She says slowly, running her hands over the picture one time before ushering me along to the next one.

"I love this one," I reach up and touch the face of the infamous Morrissey who's got his arm slung around Em's shoulders just like the Boss had done, but this time Mom's in a better outfit (at least to my standards) and definitely a little older. I look closer to see if there's a bulge beneath her tattered Smiths shirt, but I can't make anything out. I pull back before Em spots me attempting to find my fetus self in the picture.

The next one is another great: Robert Smith, lead of The Cure. I feel a pang of jealousy wondering what Robert Smith must be like in the flesh. His hair is teased just as high as Em's and both of them have got unknown liquids in plastic cups. Em is raising hers to her lips so I can't see her lips. But I can definitely see Roberts and the way they're curling at the corners as though he knows a secret, perhaps my secret. I finally turn to Em, who is still staring at the picture, obviously nostalgic as can be (which often happens when she walks down the hallway of memories). I pat her on the shoulder, allowing her to continue remembering, and walk into my room – closing the door behind me. I throw myself on the bed, not prepared to leave New York City for the next three months. I gaze up at the wall, spotting the only 'picture of memories' that I have. One of my best friend, Lily and I, standing outside Em and my apartment building on Avenue B the day that we moved in; both Lily and I have on matching pairs of overalls that, in my opinion, are a complete fashion no-no.

Just as I'm about to become half as nostalgic as Em is most likely being, the door to my room bursts open and in storms Lily, her black hair flowing behind her and her green eyes bearing holes into my soul. She instantly rushes to the suitcase, slamming it shut and sitting down hard on it before zipping it beneath her weight. "Toothbrush?" She starts the list. Having already been on tons of vacations, Lily clearly is more equip for what to bring than I am.

"Check." I say lazily.

"Address?" I walk to my desk and pick up a piece of paper with some address that I can't understand scrawled across it. The address, although I can't read it, is apparently going to lead me to a family that will allow me to live with them for the next three months in London, England (that is, if I take good care of their child.) Mom's friend, Bethany, set me up with the job through a 'friend of a friend.' I didn't particularly sound like a good idea to me, but I've been nannying for almost a year now – straight out of high school, at least. And I never had a problem with staying at anyone else's house. It was probably just the idea that it was 3,000 miles away and across an entire ocean that intimidated me.

Lily continued on with the list as I freely daydreamed about the rest of my summer; three whole months in good old London, England. There was so much to do, so much to see. I began to wonder if British boys were as hot as their accent made them sound. I wondered if they really had teeth like Austin Powers or if they were kissable, sweet, hot guys?

"Team," Lily was snapping her fingers in front of my face. "Do you have the PPP?" I gaze down at the bright post-it attached to the address and nod. Lily quickly snatches it from my grasp and gives it the one over.

She plops down on my bed in a defeated manner, "You really think he's number one?" I look over her shoulder at the name I have scrawled across the top line of the post it. I shrug my shoulders.

"I dunno, he would definitely be the coolest." I pause for a second and chew at my lip. "Team Springsteen." Lily and I scrunch our noses up at the sound of it.

"Disgusting." She says. I nod my head in agreement.

"But," I pause for dramatic effect. "Mom busted out the song and dance on him again today," I point down the list to the name 'Van Eede' and Lily wiggles her eyes at me.

"I dunno, dude." She cocks her head to the side. "I still say you've got the same nose as Morrissey. And that would be awesome." She gawks at me for a second more before I pull the post it out of her hand and shove it into my carry-on bag. "Plus, it can't be the Boss, because your dad obviously lives in England and the Boss definitely isn't in England."

I shrug again, zip up the pocket to my carry on and throw it over my shoulder. "I guess we'll have to see. I have three months to figure this all out." The post-it Lily and I are currently talk about is labeled "the Potential Papa's Post-it" Or the PPP as Lily and I had shortened it to somewhere over the past two years. Incase you haven't noticed, Em was quite the groupie in her time. Yet, the only thing (other than pictures, of course) that she had to show for it was me. And that's where my summer vacation came in. Upon my incessant begging, questioning and sneaking about – Em had finally booked me a trip to London, England where – she swore – with the proper head on my shoulders I would be able to find something, anything about my father. We had come to a firm understanding: she would confirm anything for me that was true, but no hints were to be given. I had a job, a place to live and three months before I had to return home and if I returned home with nothing, it was over. I could no longer nag Em about my father.

"Correction," Lily said. "You have a month to figure it out, then I'll be there for two whole weeks to party, put the pieces together and leave with your PP all sorted out." I smiled brightly at her and pulled her into a tight hug.

"I'm so going to miss you," I sobbed out a muffled sentence into her hair.


	2. Chapter 2

I walk onto the plane with slow accuracy. I'm breathing as slowly as I possibly can, panting and hyperventilating at all costs. I turn around; spotting Em and Lily get smaller in the distance as I walk down the hallway that leads to the plane. I can smell the putrid air fuel, or maybe that's just all the people that have probably upchucked in this small exact hallway.

"Are you alright?" The voice behind me is thick with a British accent, for a moment I wonder what the hell they're doing in America before realizing that I'm on my way to England and there's most likely going to be British people on my flight. So, rather than answering the stranger, I decide to ponder how sexy British boys might be. That works out for about 4 minutes and I'm back to breathing heavily again as I approach the flight attendant.

"Hello," She smiles at me brightly. I read her name off of her badge, Aimee. She's American. "28B." She reads the number of my seat off in the most sugar-coated voice I've heard in my life. It almost makes me sick and the plane hasn't even taken off yet. "Over one aisle, back 28 and on your right." I do as she says, walking just as slowly and deliberately as I had been doing the entire length of the hallway. Behind me people are attempting to shuffle past, clearly annoyed at how slow I'm going.

I sit down in my seat and buckle my belt before even shoving my carry-on underneath the seat in front of me. I attempt to recall the cab ride to the airport, but nothing is coming to me, I can't even remember what Lily or Em's faces look like… am I homesick already? I focus my attention on the back of the headrest in front of me and start my own miniature Lamaze class. Hee Hee Hooo. Hee Hee Hoooo. A man sits next to me, gazing over from time to time as I expand my diaphragm and attempt not to panic.

"Miss, are you alright?" He's waving a hand in my face and it's only making me more nauseas.

I turn to him to tell him. I turn and I stop breathing. I turn and my eyes bulge out of my head and before we've even taken off, before I even heard the roar of the engines turning on – I manage to puke all over the man next to me. He looks at me, astonished, just as the women I remember from the front of the flight walks past.

"Holy," She raises her hand to her mouth before grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me to the front of the cockpit. She's talking faster than I imagined her sweet voice could, she's telling everyone around her that she's got a nervous flier. I'm just trying to breathe.

The next thing I know I'm standing in a small metal looking mini kitchen. Bottles of water are being shoved in my face from three different directions. I grab a hold of one and press it against my head.

"Have you flown before?" There's a male stewardess in my face. (Stewardess? Steward? Homo? Whichever.) I shake my head no.

"Are you alone?" I shake my head yes.

"How old are you?" I'm tempted to speak up and say, 'If we're playing 20 questions these should only be yes no.' But instead I hold up nine fingers on my hands – hoping that they realize they need to add 10 to the number I hold up. It works and they do. "19." The man says out loud. I hear the engines rumble beneath me. Aimee looks at the steward(ess) with a helpless look on her face.

"I don't know where to sit her," She's hissing at him as he buckles into his flight seat and prepares for take-off as the pilot has so calmly announced over the intercom. I, on the other hand, am back to thinking I might puke. People are beginning to look down the aisles at me – obviously not concerned with my well being, but more with the fact that I might hold up the plane.

A light dings above our heads as Aimee and I make our way back down the aisle. She's holding me like I might pass out – for a second I wonder if I should. Aimee presses the same button that just made the noise and holds up one finger. "One moment," Her voice is back to sugary sweetness.

The person beneath the light snaps his fingers; I watch as Aimee rolls her eyes. "Yes?" She speaks through grit teeth.

"There's a seat open here, it's my mates, but he's not come along." The voice sounds familiar, I can't put it together, but without even realizing it I've pushed Aimee away from it and sat down in the seat. It's First Class, and much nicer than the cramped space I'd been sitting in before.

Aimee, grateful that I'm out of her hands, makes her way back to the male steward(ess) and gives him the go ahead for the plane to take off. I rub my temples and press the button next to me. I fall backwards instantly.

The person next to me laughs. "You can't have your seat down for take off."

I roll my eyes behind my closed eyelids, "I don't think they'll care, I just vomited."

"So I smelled." I cringe at the person's response, sitting up to get a better view of who had large enough nostrils to smell my puke all the way at the front of the plane. The boy staring back at me has the brightest and bluest eyes I've ever seen. It takes everything in me not to gasp at how beautiful they are. Across his forehead are locks of dirty curls beneath a green knitted beanie. He beams at me and his teeth are straighter than my own. I lift my fingers up and rub them along my gums, willing my teeth to be as straight and as white as his.

He leans over me and presses the seat button. My seat flies up to meet me. I scowl at him. He's sitting leaning over me, his elbow brushing against my stomach. "Trust me, it doesn't matter what you've done they won't let you lay down if they won't let me lay down." I want to ask him what he means but he's already backed up and placed his hand out for me to shake.

"Danny," He says his name like he's not sure if it's his own.

"Team," I say it the same exact way – wondering if it's a joke or not. Obviously he thinks it's a joke 'cause he's burst out laughing.

"Excuse me?" He chokes out between chuckles.

"Team."

"As in, Go Team!" He throws his hand into the air for effect.

"Yes, as in Go Team!" I do the same, a little less enthusiastically and more along the lines of 'you just said the same thing that everybody I've ever met says.'

"Do you like that name?" His eyes are bearing holes into my dull brown ones. I shrug my shoulders. I know my real answer; I do like my name. I like the fact that it makes it sound like Em and I have a whole load of kids and siblings. I like the fact that it makes us sound like more than just a two member family; it makes us sound like a happy family of four or maybe even five. But instead I pipe up, "I don't know. Do you like your name?"

Danny thinks about it for a bit, "I don't mind it." He shrugs and I shake my head and return to trying to open the water bottle Aimee gave to me beforehand.

Danny reaches over and snags the water bottle from my grip; opening the top in one go.

"I loosened it for you," I say sarcastically. Danny cracks a smile and hands it back to me. As I throw my head back to gulp down a large sip I catch a view of the window next to him and nearly spit out my water. "We're in the air!" I almost scream it, but quickly remember that I'm in First Class.

Danny nods his head and smirks. "See what a fit bloke can do to a girl?"

I'd answer with something sarcastic but I'm too busy digging my nails into his arm.


End file.
